


The Golden Spiders

by QueanBysshe



Category: Incredibles (Pixar Movies)
Genre: Gen, Supervillain Organizations, Supervillains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-01-12 18:47:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18452468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueanBysshe/pseuds/QueanBysshe
Summary: There was a very tall, very pale redhead sitting at the black wrought-iron table of the dark little coffee house, his very long legs elegantly crossed, his hat with a wide brim hiding most of his face in shadow. His shirt was not white, as one expected with a black suit, but a deep plum, with the long and pointed collar that was avant-garde fashion, at the moment. His silk tie had a very distinctive pin—that of a golden spider, the mark of the Guild. It was a mark Bob and Helen hadn’t seen in a long time.A story looking at how the supervillains of the Glory Days were affected by Syndrome's atrocities, the ban, and the lifting of it.





	1. The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to my Grandpa Roy, who first introduced me to superheroes, and taught me to be a gentleman.
> 
> Title is lifted from a Nero Wolfe mystery.

There was a letter in the fanmail that morning, addressed to the entire family. It was on fine black stationery, the ink white.

_To the Incredible Family,_

_I am Weavyrn, a supervillain of the old style, having studied under the Maquis Ténèbres. I wanted to extend a formal letter of introduction, before engaging Menacing. I know it is a new world, with new generations that are not following the rules of the old; but I am not of the opinion that a supervillain should be a mannerless cur._

_I have quite a lovely death-maze that will offer skill-level appropriate challenges for not only Mr Incredible and Elastigirl, but also the young heroes._

_My references include Maestro Forte, Heart Diamante, Maquis Ténèbres, and, of course, Edna Mode._

_If you wish to meet, I will be at the following address on Friday, between the hours of three and nine post-meridian._

_~Weavyrn_

-

There was a very tall, very pale redhead sitting at the black wrought-iron table of the dark little coffee house, his very long legs elegantly crossed, his hat with a wide brim hiding most of his face in shadow. His shirt was not white, as one expected with a black suit, but a deep plum, with the long and pointed collar that was avant-garde fashion, at the moment. His silk tie had a very distinctive pin—that of a golden spider, the mark of the Guild. It was a mark Bob and Helen hadn’t seen in a long time.

He also, not unusual for this part of town, was wearing lipstick—and it was dark plum, just like his shirt, lining very shapely lips, that quirked in a perfectly Villainous smirk, when he saw the two pass by. Helen knew Bob was out of place—he didn’t blend in anywhere. Here, however, _Helen_ felt a little less out of place. She’d majored in theatre, in college, she knew what kind of crowd this was, with the perfectly-coiffed hair and the men being a little more well-manicured than even the finest lawyer. These were musical types, artistes. Homosexuals, to be exact. But, Helen thought, of _course_ supervillains had retreated into this community. She took charge of ordering coffee for her and her husband, since he was tense and looking around like they were in a quarantine.

‘Bob, try to relax, would you? They don’t _bite_.’

‘I don’t think they _bite_ ,’ he began, and then held his tongue. He’d known a couple guys like this, in his time; he had a couple family members, too. They were okay guys. He’d never been around so many, though, not since his brother’s unofficial wedding; and he felt like a clumsy goose among swans—or maybe among peacocks. There was just so much _charisma_ here, so much _poise_. There were also appreciative gazes, and Bob was _never_ quite sure what to do with those. He didn’t want to _hurt_ anybody, it wasn’t that he was afraid they’d do something to _him;_ but he didn’t know how to turn down flirting from men, and didn’t want someone to put him in a position where he had to turn them down because he was married, not because he wasn’t _interested_. And he didn’t know how to say that to Helen, didn’t know how she felt about… queer men. They’d never much talked about the subject; Bob hadn’t wanted to know if she was one of those people that believed the propaganda videos from school.

‘ _I_ bite,’ said a pair of blue eyes wreathed with yesterday evening’s stage paint, scrubbed off but still clinging enough to make an alluring shadow. He was standing behind them in line to order, a froth of wine-red curls in a sharply-tailored oxblood suit, and swept Bob with an up and down gaze, arms folded. ‘You’re _very_ bite-able, my sugar,’ he purred, his English accent syrupy and materteral.

‘I—thank you—that’s—’ Bob stammered, blushing that awful splotchy blush that was a blond’s curse.

‘Leave him be, Vartan,’ came a carrying voice, and Vartan glanced across the coffee house, then froze, glancing at the two supers, and then away.

The supervillain had gotten up, unfolding to a height that spoke of either powers or genetic disorders, and come over, taking off his hat once he was fully inside the doorway from the patio. His voice had carried easily, not just from the training supervillains always gave themselves, but because of the sub-basement bass pitch of it.

‘So good of you to come,’ he said, in that syrup-smooth timbre, and held out a hand that was not wider than Bob’s, but was longer, long and pointed nails, painted black, making it seem longer still. ‘Come, sit with me. We shall converse.’

‘I haven’t seen a pin like that in a long time,’ Helen said softly, after they were sitting at a table away from the windows. She and Bob were masked, but in otherwise inconspicuous clothes. And the suit cam was functioning, just in case things went bad. There was still the simmering possibility that things could go wrong; but meeting this villain at last gave Helen a familiar and less frightening chill. This was, indeed, one of the Old Guard. The Guild didn’t give out pins to just anyone; and they had their own ways of keeping members of the Guild… good representatives of the image they wanted to maintain. In some ways, the NSA had modelled itself after the Guild’s internal police, The Bite.

‘It was an honour to receive, at the end of my internship,’ Weavyrn said, and gave a low rumble of a chuckle at their surprise. ‘I am only nineteen, I know my extraordinary physiognomy rather disguises my age.’

‘You mentioned an interest in our children.’

‘Nothing untoward, I assure you,’ he said, very seriously. ‘But they have been forced into traumatic situations whenever their powers are used. I know how that associates panic and fear with one’s powers, and wanted to offer help to other members of my generation. You well know resources were thin for us, after the ban; thinner still, for developing supers. That’s why I became what I am. That’s why I built my Labyrinth.’

‘You wanted to help other kids like you?’

‘Yes. I was lucky—I grew up in the Guild. We’re a tight-knit community—but I also watched our counterparts, who were not so lucky, get splintered by the NSA, which only made them easier to pick off, when the wrong person decided to try the great game.’

When a supervillain got _that_ tone, you knew they were thinking up a terrible doom for the person mentioned. ‘Syndrome’s dead,’ Bob said, quietly.

Those eyes looked away, half-lidded, and brows raised. ‘Oh,’ came the airy, almost breathless comment. ‘What a pity.’

Bob grinned. ‘I’ve missed real supervillains.’

A faint smile. ‘The community in the shadows is forever grateful for the work you both have done—and still mourns the losses we have _all_ suffered.’

The waiter came by, pausing to set down two cups of black coffee and one frothy confection in a wide, shallow mug. He flicked a flirtatious brown gaze at Weavyrn. ‘Cappuccino, on the house.’

The supervillain quirked a perfectly-executed brow, but he took a fastidious sip. ‘My compliments to the _barista_ ,’ he said, and took a sip, leaving a lipstick-print on the mug, but somehow avoiding getting any of the foam on his lips. The waiter hesitated, like he wanted to say something else, but with a glance at the two superheroes he swished away.

‘So,’ said Weavyrn, ‘do you wish my art, or shall I move on?’

‘You must understand our hesitance, Weavyrn,’ Helen began.

‘I do,’ he said, simply, which threw her out of rhythm for a moment; but that was supervillains for you, wasn’t it? Always throwing you off, if you weren’t focussed.

‘We did check your references,’ Bob added, obviously far more game for this. ‘It was very good of you to offer them upfront like that.’

‘I understand that you have been through some very…’ he took a long breath in through his nose, crossing his legs. ‘ _uncouth_ examples of villainy. I knew it was important that I remind you how it is _done_.’

‘And you’ve been trained very well,’ Helen said. ‘I’m interested in what kind of menacing you do. You obviously don’t go in for the world-domination stuff.’

‘Or the wanton destruction,’ Bob added.

Weavyrn gave just a small taste of his Laugh, and suddenly came to true _life_ , his eyes glittering and his entire body expressive as he spoke. ‘My dear doers of good,’ he purred, ‘I _amuse_ myself. Life is so very _dull_ when you’re a puzzler like myself. I can solve a rubik’s cube in seconds! Chess is commonplace; billiards, a bore; _nothing_ challenges me, you see—so I had to make my own fun.’

This was very good monologuing, Helen thought; he was really using his full range of motion, and the emoting was wonderful—she’d forgotten how much she really _liked_ the camp supervillains (who were usually European—they had Traditions, over there). ‘So you put supers in a death-maze.’

‘Yes, well, it’s only death if you don’t solve the puzzle! They _all_ have a solution, I am not _unfair_ —perish the thought! You know,’ he said, a truly happy smile curling his face, and making him look so much younger. ‘My _favourite_ puzzle was Voyd. I had to build an _entirely different_ maze for her.’

‘You’ve met Voyd?’

‘Of _course_ I’ve met Voyd, I _trained_ Voyd!’ he almost snapped it, but it was part of the act, of course, and he smoothed into bliss again. ‘What a _challenge_ she was! And she’s not the first, nor the last. I was _very_ careful, I wanted to bring my _best_. Puzzles. A speedster and a skinshift, my _stars_ what a dream….’ He seemed to remember himself, and looked at them again. ‘With your blessing, of course,’ he said, with a bow of his head. It was as much a performer’s final bow as it was one of deference, and Helen wanted to applaud. Bob was over the moon, she saw without needing to look; she could practically feeling him vibrating with glee.

‘We’ll get back to you after we talk to the kids,’ Bob said, which Helen was surprised and pleased about; she’d expected him to jump like a dog with a stick. Bob had really changed a lot, since his long stint taking care of the kids.

‘Of course.’ Weavyrn reached into his suit jacket, and pulled out a silver case, offering a business card in his fingers. ‘My card.’

It was black, like the stationery, and a circular labyrinth was embossed on one side in silver; the other simply had his name, and a phone number.

‘It was _great_ to meet you,’ Bob said, as they all stood to shake hands and part ways; it was clear Weavyrn was going to stay and finish his… whatever it was. And they had to get back to Winston, who was probably going to be _incandescent_ , having been a fly on the wall for all of that.

‘Thank you for giving us time and space,’ Helen added, because it needed to be said, it was the only polite way of encapsulating the sheer conscientiousness this young man was displaying, by being so slow, so careful, being the most gentlemanly supervillain possible, so aware of everything Helen and Bob had been through—so aware of everything _all_ of them had been through. Helen hadn’t thought about some of the references Weavyrn gave in years.

-

They sat on a roof, after the meeting, to talk. They turned the cams off, wanting privacy.

‘So,’ Bob said, ‘that was a blast from the past. Did you see his Guild pin? Man! I haven’t seen one of those in _years_. And that _monologue_!’

‘It really makes clear that nobody really thought about the villains,’ Helen said, quietly, as she looked over the city. ‘The NSA never relocated _them_.’

‘Because it was assumed the Guild policed their own,’ Bob countered, but not with any rancor.

‘But did they ever _check_?’

‘Maybe it was an oversight.’

‘It was a stupid oversight! That kid is only a little older than Violet—who raised him? All alone?’

‘He seemed fine to me,’ Bob said, and Helen and he both quieted, letting the sentence sit between them for a while—and everything it implied.

‘Fine?’ Helen asked.

‘Yeah. Well-adjusted, polite, obviously educated. Nothing unstable or anything. I mean, okay, it’s a little eccentric, being so obsessed with games and puzzles, but that’s pretty normal for a supervillain.’

‘And the fact that he’s… wearing makeup, that’s fine?’

‘Sure,’ Bob said, firmly. ‘It’s fine, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, of course it’s fine. Bob, I was in _theatre_ , in college. Of course it’s fine.’

‘You were? You never told me what you majored in.’

‘What? Really?’ Helen’s tension melted into laughter. ‘What did you _think_ I majored in?’

‘I didn’t really think about it,’ Bob said with a shrug. ‘I majored in General Education, so I guess majors aren’t something I think about much.’

‘Huh,’ Helen said, ‘well, I never really knew you were okay with… that kinda thing.’

‘You can say “homosexual”, Helen, I’m not going to cringe.’

‘You’re not?’

‘No,’ Bob said, ‘just because I grew up in a small town doesn’t mean I believed all that bullshit in those films they show kids. I was… sort of preparing to have a talk with Violet, when they do the whole sex ed thing.’

‘That’s funny, _I_ was planning on taking her to a drag show, next week,’ Helen said, chuckling.

‘Next _week_? Isn’t that—isn’t that a little young, for something like that? They, well, they _swear_.’

‘If she’s old enough for a supervillain to try and kill her—twice—then she’s old enough for the word “fuck”, Bob.’

‘But the drinking—’ he stopped himself, ‘You’ll be with her,’ he said. ‘You sure?’

‘My friend Decanter Black knows, Bob; I told her years ago that I wanted to take my kids to see her show when they were in high school, and she’s been bothering me ever since.’

‘Decanter Bl—why haven’t I met your drag queen friends?’

‘I didn’t know what you’d say.’

‘I—well, okay, that’s reasonable,’ he sighed. ‘I didn’t know what you’d say about me, either.’

‘You?’

‘I’m…’ he braced himself, then slumped a little. ‘I’m bisexual, Helen.’

‘Oh! Well, that’s all right.’ Helen said, scooting closer to him, leaning in, and whispering, ‘Me too.’

They laughed—at each other, at the fear keeping their tongues held, at the irony of it, and, just a little, for the joy of being with the one they loved most on a beautiful night.

‘Say, Helen, why don’t we invite one or two of your friends over for dinner?’

‘What!’

‘Sure, why not? We can get a sitter for Jack-Jack, and the house is big enough.’

‘God, Jaris would love that house…’ Helen murmured, half to herself. _Most_ of her friends would love the house—it was over the top, it was sweepingly futuristic, and had lots of natural light. Helen thought about it more seriously—she kept in touch with all the friends who would write to her, which was about a dozen, really. They were all very close, and Helen was glad she’d never had to really take anybody up on the offers for spare rooms or couches or basements—though part of her did wonder what it might have been like, having the kids grow up around her theatrical tribe. It was an open secret, in that community, that Helen was a super. That’s where a lot of supers had laid low—or lived it up on stage.

‘Come on, it’ll be fun. I can invite my brother and his housemates up from Vegas, make it a real party. When’s the last time we had a party?’

‘That _would_ be a lot better for Violet and Dash than a show….’ Helen could really picture it. ‘What about hero work?’

‘Winston has Frozone _and_ me on the roster now; we can just plan it around one of Frozone’s shifts. And, hey,’ he said, turning a little more Mr Incredible, for a moment. ‘Maybe they know something about this Weavyrn. He seemed like a pretty well-known regular in that coffee shop—and he wasn’t the only one.’

‘You spotted the other supervillains?’

‘Covering every exit and the patio,’ Bob said, raising a brow.

‘And that one that flirted with you,’ Helen said, and the surprise in his face said he hadn’t noticed that one. ‘His hair was naturally-unnatural.’

‘How could you _tell_. It’s that red that everyone’s dyeing their hair now.’

‘Eyebrows,’ Helen said. ‘ _Nobody_ can dye their eyebrows.’

‘Damn. I’ve got to get better at details,’ Bob muttered to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Winston was incandescent.

‘This is _great!_ A real member of the _Guild of Spiders!_ I can’t believe it!’ he effervesced, as soon as Bob and Helen returned to the towncar. ‘A _real supervillain!_ And so _impressive_ , are you considering it—I’m sure it will be fantastic. Oh, and the footage! Do you think he’d give us an interview? No, probably not….’

Bob and Helen just sat back and let him talk excitedly for a few minutes, as the car wended through the late afternoon streets, before school was out but after lunch; it was cool, but never cold, in New Urbem. ‘Winston,’ Bob began, and waited.

‘Winston,’ Helen interrupted, a little firmer. ‘I know you’re excited—but we need to be serious. If the Guild is reaching out, it means there’s a whole lot more supervillains than there are superheroes, right now.’

The unspoken presence of Syndrome filled the car, and Winston sobered.

‘That’s a good point. Do you think they’ll go after my sister?’ he asked, in a much less confident voice. Helen tried to be gentle.

‘Screenslaver didn’t break any Guild rules that I know of; they’d probably welcome her.’

‘That’s a pretty weird comfort, but… it is one,’ Winston said, quietly. ‘Thank you. So,’ he said, still quiet but a little less sad. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘I think it’s time Violet was allowed to face a challenge on her own.’

‘And Dash,’ Bob said. ‘I know he’s only nine, but his powers are pretty strong, and he needs some way to use them. Helen, listen, he’s getting more malicious with them. When I was his age, my parents started helping me use my powers constructively. Dash’s powers aren’t as easy to use for chores, and Weavyrn said “age-appropriate challenges”, which means he _knows_ Dash is a little kid.’

‘I hear what you’re saying, Bob, but… he’s still a stranger.’

‘So are Dash’s _teachers_ —’

‘We can give him a suit cam,’ Winston said, loath to interject when the two supers were talking about their children, but wanting to offer aid. ‘Maybe pair him up with one of you, at least at first?’

Helen’s worried look smoothed a little. ‘That’s not a bad idea; I’ve seen how Dash and Bob work together, what about that?’

‘That’s a great idea!’ Bob said, always excited to spend more time with his son, both of them using powers together. That was his _favourite_ father-son bonding activity.

‘So you _are_ going to accept this supervillain’s offer?’ Winston tried to rein in his enthusiasm, not wanting to seem like he was advocating for putting kids in danger—even if they were junior superheroes in their own right.

‘He seemed really passionate about training kids,’ Bob mused, ‘and he mentioned he’d trained Voyd. Do you think he’s trained any of the others?’

‘I mean, they all seemed to have found _some_ way to learn to control their powers,’ Helen said, leaning back in her seat thoughtfully. ‘I _have_ been wondering about that—but why wouldn’t they mention it?’

Winston thought on that, because it was a question he knew he could answer, that it was his _business_ to know. He’d studied supers his whole life, as soon as he was old enough to understand they were people with a history, and he might help them with his career at DevTech. He’d studied villains too—not just Syndrome, but all the greats from the past, the from the distinctly solitary Maestro Forte and Lady Schadowe to the devastating team that called themselves the Maquis Ténèbres, to the Guild of Spiders itself. It wasn’t secrecy so much as silence and control of the airwaves. They were very good at public relations, very good at image control. Winston had learned a lot from studying what little there was of them in the press archives. He’d even gone to Europe to the last known headquarters of the Guild, only to find the building stripped clean and turned into a restaurant. The owner had told him in no uncertain terms that he’d find nothing about the Guild here, but they did a very good Duck L’Orange, if he wanted to stay for lunch. Winston had stayed, and it had been good, as advertised; but he hadn’t stayed for dessert, downhearted by the dead end.

And of course, now, when the _Guild_ wanted, they had made first contact. The message was very clear—don’t call us, we’ll call you. They controlled the conversation, as always. It left Winston with very little to work with—which was just what they wanted. Winston had never realised really _how much_ control the Guild had over their own interactions. Maybe that was their reaction to the NSA—after all, whatever _had_ happened to Bomb Voyage? The burden of being the supervillain that ended it all must be a heavy one.

Well, all he could do was wait for the show. That was one of the things about the Old Guard villains, the members of the Guild, that had really been missing, with the Resurgence—the _showmanship_ that the old villains had, the _style_ and _panache_ and the sheer _fun_ they seemed to be having. The old cartoon shows and tv shows really tried, but they didn’t compare to the real thing. Winston was just sad he’d never been able to witness a Guild villain in person.

-

‘Did you _see_ him, darlings! What a _dear pet_ he would be,’ Vartan was in fits over Mr Incredible. ‘And a _natural_ blond!’

‘Vartan, your predilection for blonds notwithstanding, the man is obviously _happily_ married.’

‘Did you see his _pectorals_ , Mmmrrrr,’ Vartan growled, going halfway into his beast form to do it. ‘I wanted to _bite_ them, God!’ he swooned over the chaise he was draped over.

From his corner of the room, there was a low and very perfectly-executed Chuckle. Maestro Forte re-crossed his silk-clad legs, the clocking on his black stockings shimmering in the lights from the vanity table mirrors.

‘And bite them you shall, in time,’ he purred, and Vartan’s growl turned into a purr as he shivered, fur fluffing and claws kneading at the cushion he was lounging on.

‘NnnMaestro…’ he moaned, rubbing his face on the velvet of the sofa.

It was _Maestro’s_ Lair the two young villains were in, currently in the room converted to a dressing room, because while Maestro Forte _could_ have ensconced himself in a proper theatre, he preferred blaspheming sacred ground, and so had taken over a church years ago (the pipe organ was better in a church, anyway). The town had grown up around the church, once he’d taken over, years ago, when the Great Game was going strong, when passion-plays spun out their threads of story over the world stage.

That was long ago, when he’d been a younger man. Now, he was older, his blood-red hair having gone rose-gold streaked with white, and had taken under his wing two young queens like himself, more than most of his colleagues—and they never let him forget it. None expected Maestro Forte, of all people, to be so maternally inclined.

Vartan had even been chained up in the basement of a mental hospital, poor creature, pointing out that the world needed to have supers, because otherwise extraordinary people would be tortured into non-existence or worse, kept alive to suffer alone, going mad with the neglect and abuse. But Vartan was doing well, now, Forte having destroyed those who kept him captive, sponsored his education, pulling at his contacts to teach Vartan to use his powers, accept his beast-form and his true self. Expressing a desire to be not a Villain, but a Hench, Vartan had asked to become Forte’s lover; and so Maestro had taken a Hench for the first time—and a lover.

Claude-Marion had been in a circus, having made his powers of flexibility and his great height into an unparalleled act, inventing a new kind of aerial acrobatics that still had Europe talking. ­­His true passion was puzzles and mazes, and Forte had connected him with colleagues that had helped him engineer and design a maze for heroes to run, full of traps and modular pieces that could _move_. He had taken the name Weavyrn, and Forte saw to it that his costume and mask were properly registered in the archives.

‘So, do you think they’ll bite, brother?’ Vartan asked Claude-Marion, sitting upside-down on the sofa he was on, always unable to keep still or sit properly. ‘Give you new little toys to play with?’

‘I have a wealth of diversions, thank you,’ Claude-Marion rose to the teasing for the fun of the game. ‘Voyd is on my schedule for tomorrow, and she is, as ever, quite the joyance.’

**Author's Note:**

> Comments? Questions? Bonus Features? Come over to [my discord](https://discord.gg/Mvygfnn)!


End file.
